


the truth may vary

by beardsley



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/pseuds/beardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, the woman who calls herself Moriarty meets a second-year surgical resident: this is how the story would start, were it known to anyone that the woman who calls herself Moriarty does not work alone.</p>
<p>(This is not the story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the truth may vary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [botherd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/botherd/gifts).



> Written as a treat for **botherd** , whose request for Irene/Joan made me punch the air in victory. Title from Of Monsters and Men; thanks to [name redacted] for looking this over ♥.

Once upon a time, the woman who calls herself Moriarty meets a second-year surgical resident: this is how the story would start, were it known to anyone that the woman who calls herself Moriarty does not work alone.

(This is not the story.)

Years later it takes four months for Joan to unlearn her instincts and it is a measure of her success that when she wakes up in the middle of the night and Irene is there, her presence like a denser concentration of shadow in the otherwise dark room, Joan doesn't reach for the knife under her pillow (there is no knife under her pillow; she unlearned that habit, too, the same way she learned to dress and move and act, the same way she learned to pass for a woman whose existence is wholly manufactured).

Irene is seated, cross-legged, in the armchair opposite the bed and she watches Joan with an expression too blank to be read in the darkness. With her head cocked slightly to one side, a sliver of moonlight catches in her hair. It's pulled back in a tight ponytail, which means she's come back from a job.

'You're awake,' she says, uncurling from the chair in one swift movement. When it is just the two of them, when the masks come off, there is nothing but control in Irene's body language: tight and sparse and humming with an unspoken threat, promise, of violence.

Sighing, Joan covers her eyes with one arm. She doesn't bother looking at the alarm clock; judging by the length of shadows in the room, it can't be later than 4am. A shame, really. She wanted to get some sleep before it all started, though maybe looking tired might go some way to give her cover more credibility.

'You stare very loudly.'

Irene laughs, barely above an exhalation of breath. It's honest, Joan knows, because it sounds like it has been surprised out of her. She says, 'I do no such thing,' and her voice is closer now.

Closer, and when Joan sits up to get a look at her she stands at the foot of Joan's bed with her back straight and her hands, still gloved, fisted tight at her sides. Leather gloves, black, the kind that won't be ruined by a few drops of blood. There was a time years ago when this would have sent cold shivers down Joan's spine; there was a time years ago when she would have been afraid of, and then uncomfortable with, and then resigned to the reality of who — of _what_ — Irene Adler is.

Now, though. Now it is years later and Joan only moves up the bed and spreads her legs to make space for Irene to climb in next to her. She kicks off her boots and shrugs out of her jacket. She pulls off her gloves finger by finger. There is an edge of a bandage peeking from under her right sleeve. Joan frowns.

'She put up a fight,' Irene says, following Joan's gaze. She kneels on the bed. 'I wanted to make it quick, but they always put up a fight.'

'You should've woken me up. I'd have looked at it.'

The edge of Irene's smirk is all danger. 'I'm waking you up now.' She doesn't stop Joan from grabbing her by the collar to pull her close and she doesn't stop Joan from rolling up her sleeve. The bandage is not soaked through, which is a small mercy. It's too dark to get a good look, so Joan lets it go. Irene, like most people in their profession, knows very well how to take care of herself; she'd taken care of herself for years before she had first met a handy surgeon to patch her up.

Knowing that never stops Joan from wondering if the next cut, the next bullet wound, will be the last. People in their profession might know how to take care of themselves, but people in their profession have a relatively short life expectancy all the same.

'You're worried,' Irene says. She sounds delighted, delighted and pleased, and from any other person it would be condescending and cruel, but not from Irene and not when she uses this kind of tone with Joan. (No one else gets to hear her when she is pleased and if they do, it is the last thing they hear and then they are a drop of blood on her leather glove, a thin fading scar on the inside of her wrist.) 'You're worried about me.'

Groaning, Joan lets herself fall back onto the bed. 'Of course I'm worried about you. I'll be gone a long time.'

The mattress dips under Irene's weight as she shifts to hover over Joan, both knees bracketing Joan's hips. She's warm, so very warm, warmer than anyone this cold should have a right to be.

'I'll miss your expertise and assistance,' Irene says. _I'll miss you_ , she means, but she is not the kind of person who would ever say it and Joan is the not the kind of person who would ever demand it, and this might be why they work, in the end. They are not the usual kind of people, the good kind of people. They might be human, but that does not make them good.

'No surveillance,' says Joan.

'No surveillance,' Irene agrees. If this were any other target, she would watch Joan from time to time through a hidden camera or the scope of a sniper rifle; as it is, the target is far too perceptive.

The target is perceptive enough that he would notice marks on Joan, too; there is no time for the kind of game she and Irene usually play. Those leave bruises, blossoming blue and black over her neck and hips and thighs, a tangible proof that she is the one Irene comes to when she needs — when she _needs_. When she needs control, never to give up but to exert it without having to care about appearances or masks or even, sometimes, games.

Everything is a game, but some games are more honest than others. Joan knows she fascinates Irene, though she has no idea why; she also knows Irene trusts her as much as she could ever trust another human being and that is enough.

She pulls Irene closer, hands inching under the collar of her shirt, smelling clean sweat and little else — no blood, no gunpowder. Good. Joan hates the smell of gunpowder, and the smell of blood reminds her too much of work to really be appealing. They have done this more than once with blood still on their hands and they have done this in clean five star hotel beds under the aliases Moriarty and Moran, switching passports and names to throw off interested parties. They have done this after, during, and before jobs. They have done this back when Joan didn't know how to shoot a gun, back when Irene would not let Joan touch her without a blindfold on, when the game was survival and survival was loyalty and loyalty, as always, was a process.

'I'll miss you,' Joan murmurs against Irene's mouth, breath quickening as Irene pushes one knee between her thighs. The room gets warmer, suddenly, and Joan can feel sweat prickling at the back of her neck.

Irene pulls back to give her a look, one of the blank careful looks that are as readable to Joan as if they were carved in marble. 'He's interesting,' Irene says. The corner of her mouth is curved downwards.

There are layers and this is part of the game, part of trust and loyalty and Joan knows exactly what Irene isn't saying; she knows exactly what Irene is thinking. Sometimes navigating the cartography of Irene Adler is like walking on thin ice and about as good for your health, a lethal puzzle, but Joan used to solve puzzles with her bare hands and a scalpel and she knows this.

'He's not you,' she says. 'He could never be you.'

It's the right thing to say; sometimes, Irene makes things easy. She leans back to shrug out of her shirt and leaves Joan space to pull off her top and this — skin on skin, warmth and sweat, going by touch in the dark — this Joan knows too.

Tomorrow she will wake up alone and tired and her iPod will be filled with music Irene picked, good music to jog to through early-morning New York, music a young well-off ex-surgeon might enjoy; tomorrow Joan will put on her own appearance and mask and start her own game, her own long con, and she will be good enough to fool the most perceptive target because she learned and unlearned with the best of the best.

Tonight, though: tonight is her last night as the right hand of the woman who calls herself Moriarty and she wants to take advantage of every minute.


End file.
